


We Are Fire, We Are Wave, We Are Rock

by sithwitch13



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, M/M, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithwitch13/pseuds/sithwitch13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whether by the favor of the gods or by unknown causes, the rebels find themselves given new advantages.</p>
<p>Post-Vengeance, written for a prompt requesting superpowers that I've long since misplaced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Fire, We Are Wave, We Are Rock

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the vast majority of this about a year and a half ago, right after Vengeance ended. The other day I stumbled over it and thought, "Oh yeah, I should finish this." So, AU after the end of Vengeance, written for a prompt where everyone gets superpowers that I've long since lost, and title taken from "Helvetios" by Eluveitie. Which, by the way, is excellent to write Spartacus to. The album Helvetios is the Gallic Wars from the Helvetii Gauls' point of view, and it's pretty great overall as well as appealing to the history nerd in me.
> 
> Thanks to Tek for being my beta reader for this, as well as my Spartacus buddy!

The rebels--former gladiators and slaves, now victors against an army of Rome--howled relief, defiance, exuberance. Spartacus stood silent, letting the emotions of the day wash over him, still feeling the relief of Glaber's death at his hands. The weight of his words to Crixus-- _Now, we will become an army_ \--would sink in soon; for the moment, he celebrated with the others, in his own subdued, weary way.

The rebels' cheers turned to screams at the sudden explosion of sound from outside the Romans' walls. Most turned, weapons in hand. A few cowered. "The fucking Romans send reinforcements!" Agron snarled.

"No," Spartacus said, holding out a hand in warning. He looked out over the walls. "I see no signs of--"

Something struck them all, a concussive force as sure as any hammer's blow, from the direction of Vesuvius. All were knocked back as it hit with no sound, a wave with no water. Nearby, a woman screamed and as Spartacus turned to shield himself from the force of the impact he saw Crixus wrap himself around Naevia in a futile effort of protection.

Just as suddenly as it had come upon them, it stopped. Spartacus raised himself, sword arm raised to shield his face from further assault, but lowered it slowly in bemusement.

In the crowd of rebels, amid ever-rising murmurs, Donar alone remained standing, his arms outstretched, the air in front of him seeming to shimmer like water. His face was slack-jawed with shock, though he remained motionless.

Agron whispered something in his native tongue, pushing himself to rise, allowing Nasir to aid him. "What is this?" he said, still breathless with confusion, switching to the common patois of gutter Latin and other tongues the rebels spoke.

His words broke through to Donar, who dropped his hands. "On my honor I do not know," he said, his voice shaking as he stared at his hands.

Crixus glared out at Donar with outright hostility, when Spartacus turned to see how those who stood nearest to him fared. "What German sorcery is this? Do you mean to draw the fucking Romans down upon us at moment of victory?"

"I swear I do not know!" Donar clenched his fists, holding them close to his body. "I heard noise, thought it an ambush and thought only of protection."

"You lying fucking--" Crixus took a step toward Donar, before Spartacus or even Naevia could call him back. Where his foot fell, the stone beneath rippled outward, racing toward Donar. Startled rebels launched themselves aside. Wide-eyed, Donar threw his hands out in a futile protective gesture--only for the water-ripple to return to the air and for the wave of stone to slam into it, creating a spray of shrapnel where the two met.

All were silent. Crixus and Donar stared, equally shocked and amazed, at the drifting cloud of stone dust.

"And what fucking Gaulish sorcery is this," Agron said, darkly humorous.

* * *

There was no time to stay and examine their newfound skills in leisure. Once word of the legion's defeat spread, the rebels could expect all haste would be made to eliminate them. Glaber's rage had been personal; now, even Agron could see that this show of prowess would cause Rome to take them seriously.

"Bring the fucking Romans to us," he said to Nasir over their shared fire. The camp was hastily built, with Spartacus anxious to put distance between themselves and Rome. Fucking cowardice, Agron called it. "Let the shits try their weapons against the might of the gods." He kindled a fire in the palm of his hand, brighter than the one at their feet, though he could scarcely feel its heat.

Nasir drew back, though he grinned. "You would burn them with divine fire?"

Agron let the flame go, an action akin to letting go a deep breath to him now, and pulled Nasir in for a kiss. With the hand that had not held the flame--he had been told that he felt half an ember for some time after. "Until they are fucking ash."

Nasir's smile cooled. "It is not your conviction that I question, nor your methods. You truly believe us blessed by the gods?"

"What else could it be?" Agron nodded to where Saxa sparred with Donar, her flashing faster than he could follow and pausing only to strike with her daggers, him protecting himself with his shimmering air. "Look at them. They seem Hermod and Baldur themselves." At Nasir's furrowed eyebrows, he added, "One swift, the other invincible?"

"Your gods are as foreign to me as your land and language," Nasir said, leaning against him.

Agron pulled him close. "I will take you there, perhaps. Someday."

He could feel Nasir's face twist against his skin. "I will not lie. It sounds a cold place."

"Then you need only to stay by me for warmth, haven't you?"

* * *

"Spartacus!"

Gannicus caught up with Spartacus, who stopped at the call of his name, a grim look on his face. "What is it?"

"Can you not hear it for yourself?" Gannicus waved a hand behind them. "Open ears and listen, if not."

Spartacus turned and continued onward. "I put distance between us and Rome for safety's sake."

"Safety." Gannicus laughed. "As you had safety in mind when you stabbed a legatus in fucking mouth."

When Spartacus set his jaw and said nothing, Gannicus continued. "They lose edge given by victory. Cadmus speaks of taking companions and striking off."

"And this seems a decent plan to you?"

Gannicus flashed a grin. "With eight? They seek to become Illyrian corpses."

"And you?"

"Let them come." Gannicus waved his hand, sending a blast of wind cutting across the ground between them.

Spartacus eyed the wake of it grimly. "It is this overconfidence that I seek to curb," he said finally.

"Overconfidence? The gods themselves--"

"I believe in no gods," Spartacus said quietly. "Though if they exist, they seem to have taken notice of me. These gifts may be divine or otherwise--"

"What 'otherwise'?"

"Let me speak. I have seen those who believed themselves in rapport with the gods." A dark look crossed Spartacus' face. "It has rarely ended well. I seek practicality. Tell me, in our time since Vesuvius, how fares your control over wind?"

Gannicus considered. "Stronger each day."

"As are the others. We lack one with knowledge to teach--" And here Gannicus felt his heart grow heavy, knowing that the shade of Oenomaus was present, and sorely missed, "--and so must make new path, slowly and unaided."

"Perhaps you should spread word of plan," Gannicus grumbled, falling back, "before new path becomes a dozen."

Spartacus looked out ahead, and when Gannicus followed his gaze his face split into a wide, vicious grin. "Perhaps I have no need to," Spartacus said.

* * *

"I would not have you risk yourself needlessly--"

"As I would not see you in danger?" Naevia said, tracing Crixus' jaw. "You have taught well. Do you doubt your own skill?"

Crixus touched her lip, only just healed from being split by Ashur. Fucking Ashur. She did not flinch away. "It is not my skill I doubt--"

"So it is mine?" She pulled away, holding tight to the sword she had taken to wearing. "You doubt me. After all I have done, you doubt me?"

"No," Crixus hastened to say, looking stricken. She could have laughed, were she not furious. "I only wish to see you safe."

"We are escaped slaves," she said flatly. "We will _never_ be 'safe.' I will not be dead weight to be carried, waiting on death or rescue at the hands of another." She reached out for him then, made her words gentle. "You have done enough rescuing for a hundred lifetimes. Can I not take control of my own fate now?"

Crixus hesitated, but took her hand in his. He felt warm, the calluses built up by countless hours in the arena rough against her hand but no less welcome for it. "Take no unnecessary risks tonight," he said gruffly.

"As you lead, I follow," Naevia said. He winced. She smiled. "So take none of your own."

* * *

Crixus looked over his shoulder once more, seeking Naevia's scarred face in the gloom of the night. It was no use; he only had the dim light of the stars and moon above and the flickering torches of the villa ahead to see by.

"Keep face forward," Agron muttered nearby. "She would not have you fall and skewer yourself on your own sword."

Crixus' mouth twisted, but he gave no response. Even this distance away from the villa, there was a risk of being seen or heard. He could hear them, he thought: a faint, intermittent strain of voices on the breeze.

They had no risk of snapping twigs, at least. One of his Gauls had been blessed with a remarkable control over plants. How useful that would have been at Vesuvius, Crixus thought. Then they would not have had to strain arms and waste hours braiding vines.

Ahead, Nemetes flickered in and out of view. The German, who Crixus had written off as no great fighter and an eventual loss sooner rather than later, had newfound use. He stepped into shadows as if they were ponds, moving between them with ease and little notice. Crixus had found himself reluctantly admitting Nemetes' value, much to fucking Agron's smug pleasure.

Of course, Agron had to admit the same about Doiros and his plants. Brothers-in-arms they might be, with true animosity mostly gone, but Crixus still felt that rivalry kept everyone fresh.

The rebels spread out around the villa, those who were stronger fighters, with gifts that made them capable of aiding in the initial overwhelming attack, or both, at the forefront. Those with gifts that did not seem able to aid in an assault, or could be used as a surprise to further demoralize and defeat should it be necessary, were placed in the second wave.

They continued their silent move, anticipation rising in Crixus' chest. After days of running, waiting, _doing_ nothing, he felt like a caged beast finally allowed to run free. To spill Roman blood, if the gods were kind. Fighting made his blood sing in a way that few other things could rival. His heart seemed to beat stronger with every step that brought him within reach of a Roman throat.

Saxa was at his side suddenly, hissing something in her tongue, and just as suddenly she flitted out of view.

"Calm yourself," Agron said quietly from just behind and to the side of him. "She says that your excitement makes itself known too soon." He paused before adding, "And that Naevia must be a poor woman indeed if you are like this in all things."

Crixus whipped around to snarl a response, but realized that he was indeed causing the ground to shift and churn in his wake. He could have laughed.

* * *

The walls did not part, Nasir thought, so much as they were ripped. An eager lover tearing at clothing. He could almost smell Crixus' desire for blood. It made his own task easier, to take the mood, make it his own, and turn it to his advantage. Even the most timid of the rebels could feel that bloodlust now, heady and thick.

He rode the wave of it, a part of it and yet not, let it carry him over the broken stone wall of the villa. He could not lose himself to it. If he lost control of this mood, those around him could slaughter the slaves they were here to free without thought, blind to any but their own desires.

It was like keeping an animal on a leash, he thought, disconnected even as he drove his sword to the hilt into a guard's side. The man's blood splashed on him, thick and hot as he swiped it out as he'd been taught.

The trick was to keep the animal, the mood of his choice, at his side and not let it pull where it would.

Nearby he saw Agron, smiled a smile that was more bared teeth. Agron was impossible to miss, glowing brightly in the night. He burned as he fought.

A Roman flew through the air as the earth beneath him launched him upwards violently. He landed on Crixus' sword, guts emptied on the villa's floor.

Gannicus was a whirlwind, two swords in his hands and his winds behind him, tearing through guards like rotten fruit.

And what else, Nasir thought as he took a Roman across the leg, again in the throat on his way down, for Spartacus, the Bringer of Rain, than water? Not soft rain, but a hard, precise spray that blinds those around him, makes them slip on mud and slick stones when they come too near another.

Naevia's angry cry signaled the second wave, and Nasir pulled back. The palpable bloodlust in the air died gradually. He had tried it suddenly only once, but the shaking and vomiting of those too suddenly without had shocked him.

Those not killed immediately fell to Naevia's gift. Her rage, terror, whatever she felt at the moment--driven into Roman skulls like iron spikes. A woman near Lugo dropped like a stone, which did not save her head from being crushed. Lugo caught Nasir's eye and grinned despite the blood and brain on his fists.

Gradually even the last vengeful slitting of throats ceased. There were no more Romans to kill.

* * *

Before he stepped into the villa, Spartacus rinsed the worst of the blood off of him, the water like a serpent as it moved over him. The slaves inside were likely terrified by the noise; appearing a monster covered in gore would not help his cause.

"Naevia. Nasir." The two looked over at him, Naevia still shaking in residual anger and excitement and Nasir calm. "I may need your assistance," Spartacus said, motioning them over and sheathing his sword. "Your gifts--"

"Of course," Nasir said. Naevia nodded, made a visible effort to calm herself, and followed as he went inside, stepping over bloody bodies on the way. Not only could their gifts be useful in calming others, he'd thought while deciding on a plan of action should this succeed, but their experiences made them better diplomats than, say, Lugo or Crixus, who were excellent at threatening and less so at diplomacy when they saw no need for it.

Even so, the villa's slaves, once they had been found, were reluctant to speak with him. He supposed he could not blame them. Nasir and the others of his villa had been much the same after they had been freed, having seen the slaughter of all those around them. These slaves had the added shock of witnessing their liberators' unnatural gifts and the damage wreaked with them, as well. Despite Nasir and Naevia's soothing of emotions, and Spartacus' conciliatory words, an Illyrian steward took half those freed in favor of leaving to take their own chances.

"You promise great things," the man--Strabo--said as he gathered supplies before the rebels could help themselves, "but you bring danger and ruin with your every breath."

"The gods themselves smile upon us," Agron said hotly.

"The gods may have smiled on you, but what of _us_?" Strabo shook his head and wrapped a cloak around himself. "We have been beneath their notice thus far, and would prefer to stay beneath Rome's as well."

Spartacus thought of Aurelia with a twist in his gut. His friend's wife, who had also wanted only to avoid notice and ended her life bloodied and requesting only that he not find her son, lest he bring retribution down upon the child as well. A shiver ran up his spine. "The choice is yours to make," he said quietly. "Go now, before word spreads."

He watched them go, not partaking in the ransack of the villa. One of the remaining freed slaves lingered, watching after. "Do not think poorly of Strabo," he said. "He thought himself a father to us, and seeks only to protect those in his care."

"You do not choose to follow?"

The freed slave shrugged. "I may be Illyrian, but I have no memory of home or tribe. Strabo's kindness was appreciated, but I would not run and pray for mercy when caught." The young man, scarce out of boyhood, set his jaw. "I do not have your strange powers, but I can hold a sword."

Spartacus laughed. "What is your name?"

"Verzo."

"Verzo. Well. Welcome to our brotherhood." He reached out to clasp the other's arm in a firm grasp. Verzo hesitated, but reciprocated, hand resting just over the scar of Spartacus' brand.

The feeling, Spartacus thought, was not unlike a well overflowing. It ran through him and out of him, and Verzo gasped for breath and clutched at his arm painfully. The moment was gone even as Spartacus helped Verzo find his feet again.

"What did you do to me?" Verzo gasped.

"I did nothing, I swear to you," Spartacus said.

He heard his name called from behind and saw Saxa pulling a man to his feet. "This one as well," Lugo said.

"Here, too," called another.

"All those who stayed," mused Gannicus, walking up beside with a sack of supplies. He flashed a wide smile at Spartacus. "Perhaps these new ones are our brothers and sisters in more ways than one."

Spartacus looked out at the freed slaves, envisioning the farms, mines, and villas in this small part of Italy. The number of slaves in each, even if only half chose to remain with the rebels. The number of those of fighting ability. And with the additional numbers, his mind now felt free to turn to entire cities: Pompeii. Neapolis.

If those who joined their cause were blessed with new abilities as well, perhaps they could turn eyes towards even Rome itself. Spartacus caught Gannicus’ eye, and by the predatory grin the same calculations had run through his head. Reluctant a rebel as the former gladiator was, he took to leadership and strategy easily.

“Let us hope the fates smile upon us,” he said softly. Louder, he lifted one of his swords and caught the eyes of all those around. Spartacus could feel the ground churning with Crixus’ emotions, see the steam rising from Agron where the first hints of mist met his heat. “ _And let us make the Romans bleed_!”


End file.
